Dead of Night
by sporkingly
Summary: 1991. Parents Disappeared. Brother left. This is how Temperance turned to Bones.
1. The Cyborg in the Precinct

**AN:** oh, I's scared. Somehow I've taken a break from writing, but I got into the Bones fandom late last year (reruns, then starting catching new epi's) and it's started an itch I couldn't ignore. This is my first Bones fic, but been writing fic (Alias then HP) for... goodness... years. Oh, and this is my first foray in posting on this site. I know high school stories are really cliche but pegging down Brennan's "voice" still terrifies me so writing how Temperance turned into Bones took hold of my brain. Hope you likies

* * *

**Chapter One: **The Cyborg in the Precinct

Sometimes in the dead of night, Booth would wake up from a particularly vivid dream of the first time he had ever laid eyes upon her. Sweat would cause his shirt to cling to his body as he remembered how the sticky heat had swelled inside the police station on that early August night. Though it had been well into the summer, Pittsburgh had had an unseasonal cold snap that week causing someone to over zealously turn on the heater. The outlandish temperature made the minutes of his graveyard shift stretch into some bizarre form of torture by boredom. Usually, he was thankful to have any excuse to be out of the house, much less one where he was making money. Yet, on that particular evening, he wished he could have just crawled into his bed and slept. Then, she snagged the corner of his vision, crashed into his life, and changed everything.

* * *

"We found her down at Penn Station. She was passed out on the bench."

"Passed out or asleep?" Mrs. Cooper chided.

Instantly intrigued, Booth tuned into the conversation that was happening to his left on the slick. If Officer Mullins knew that he was listening in, he'd claim that Booth wasn't doing his job and send him down to the basement to file old eye witness accounts as punishment. It was well past midnight so most of their usual traffic consisted of incoherent drunks and tranny prostitutes. The young girl Mullins had drug in by the arm didn't fit either category, causing more than a few heads to turn in her direction.

"Do you think she's a runaway?" Mullins asked blandly without concern. He didn't even bother to glance at the girl.

Booth could barely see her out of the corner of his eye - a leather patch on the elbow of a jean jacket, soles of ratty shoes. He filled in the gaps of what the rest of her must look like by Mrs. Cooper's expression. She couldn't take her eyes off the girl. The elderly widow who worked at the dispatch desk looked as if she wanted to take the girl home with her, or knit her a scarf... or something. "I would guess if she were a runaway she was..." Booth listened as she dropped her voice to a mindful whisper, "escaping from an abusive home. Did you try asking her, Thomas?"

Mullins frowned and Booth grinned to himself. The policeman didn't like being called anything other than 'Officer Mullins,' yet Mrs. Cooper didn't play that rank bullshit with the men in the precinct. Her husband had been Captain in Pittsburgh for twenty years before his passing, and she had known most of the current officers since their childhood. She was going to call them by their first names the same as she always had.

"No, but she won't talk anyhow. I damn near killed myself trying to bring her in. She's as skittish and feisty as a feral cat." Mullins grumbled.

"I wouldn't talk either if you spoke as if I wasn't in the room." Pushing off Mullins' grip, she addressed the girl. "Are you all right, honey?"

"Yes." The girl's words were hollow and barely audible. "I'm fine."

_"_Funny how 'fine' is quite the relative term, isn't it? Can you tell me your name?" Booth noted that Mrs. Cooper's voice was as welcoming as her homemade peanut butter cookies she often bestowed upon him.

"No ma'am, I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

The folder Booth was holding landed on the counter with a muffled _thump_ as he gave up the pretense of doing any sort of work. He twisted his body to look at the action, his curiosity at the girl's reaction to Mrs. Cooper's gentle Spanish Inquisition winning out.

_Blank_. That's all his mind registered when his gaze took her in... it was almost as if it was too much to process at once. In a crowd, Booth didn't think he would have even noticed her. But dead on like this, she was very distinct. She wasn't atypically pretty, yet she possessed some sort of magnetic draw. Her clothes were clearly too big for her, and her hair - either red or brown, he couldn't quite tell in this light - was poorly trapped up in a long braid. Her expression was sheepish but not intimidated. Booth also found it odd that she didn't move to cover or wipe the dirt from her face. There was a long sweep of it across her jaw that was more defined that most girls, though not unfeminine. It made him think that she hadn't grown into a recent growth spurt or a sudden drop in weight.

The latter reason seemed more likely on the account of her sad eyes. _Holy Mother of—,_ he thought listlessly. Her eyes were vivid, a startling shade of blue that he figured would look unnerving on anyone else. And one of the most captivating things he had ever seen.

He watched, hooked on the way the aqua waves in her eyes danced when she spoke, as her mouth inched in subtle movements. "Won't. I… It's… Won't. I'm sorry." She said, and flush from what he assumed was embarrassment evaded her high cheek bones.

"It's alright, dear. I appreciate your honesty." The elder woman said patting her hand. "I'm Mrs. Cooper, and in case Thomas has once again forgotten his manners, you've been brought to the Pittsburgh police station."

"Oh, cry me a river. Please stop treating her like she's some porcelain doll. The delicate flower kneed the boys, if you know what I'm saying. She better be glad I didn't haul her in cuffs."

The slight shift of weight from her right foot to her left and a tightened grip on the straps of the back sack she was carrying was the her only physical response. "I asked him to please not touch my personal affects." The girl confessed in her defense with determination. "He refused to show authentication by his badge to give proof to who he claimed as identification."

Mullins looked liked he wanted bestow a swift right hook for her backtalk, abet the most polite backtalk Booth had ever heard. "Look here missy," he growled. "I told you I was police officer that is proof enough. I don't wear this uniform for the fun of it."

Booth's eyes bounced from Mullins to the girl and back again. He knew Mullins wouldn't hit her, at least he think he wouldn't hit a child, and knew he definitely wasn't stupid enough to hit her in the middle of the precinct. Nevertheless, old habits and prejudices ran deep and instinctively his fists balled up against his side in a knee jerk reaction. Pops would have said that it was his "hero knight complex" kicking in. He grew up defending people from men with power trips on a daily basis. He didn't think he'd ever shake his impulse to protect people.

"Well," Mrs. Cooper said clapping her hands together to gain everyone's attention, "maybe this matter will be settled best by the Captain. Thomas, why don't you go see what other reports have come in since you've been gone while Seeley takes our guest to get some food and drink in her." Mrs. Cooper gestured her hand in his direction to call him over and to point him out to the girl. "Simply follow that strapping young man, dear."

She swiveled her gaze to get a look at him in the same moment he moved the few steps it took him to meet them. Her head tilted slightly to the side as she took him in and Booth felt as if he were some specimen in a lab on display. He nodded at her before jerking his head in the direction of the back. He must of past whatever silent test she had put him under because after two beats of silence she nodded back.

"Look, Mullins is a jerk. Give him a fake name and make up a story. It'll take him a few days to realize it doesn't check out and in the mean time you can figure out how to get out of this place." He told her while walking. He hoped that engaging her in conversation would keep the drunks loitering on the benches from trying to grab her attention.

"Your logic is extremely flawed. Once he discovers what I said was fictitious, he will label me as a person who speaks in untruths. Therefore, when I do tell him something factual, he won't believe me despite my sincerity because past experience leads him to believe that I'm a liar."

Startled by her response, Booth almost ran into the corner of the counter in front of him. He stopped and turned to be able to look at her, walking backwards instead. "Yes, but hopefully by the time he finds out your this untruthful, fictitious person your as--, I mean butt won't be still in Pennsylvania."

Her eyebrows rose slightly at his almost curse.

He flashed her a smile in return that usually swayed anyone and anything short of his father's fist. "I'm Seeley Booth," he added extending his hand toward her.

She glanced at his outstretched appendage. "Or, they could have sent you over here to lower my defenses in hopes that I will open up to someone of my similar age. Government agencies often like to use this peer group tacit against minor persons." She said thinking of the police and detectives who continually sent the young, perky junior officer over to speak with her like they were the best-est of friends. As if that would jog something in her mind that would help with her parents disappearance.

"I'm not trying to play you, trust me."

"Trust is a social construct. It has no basis in fact."

Booth had to school his face to keep from smiling, but he managed it. He didn't want her to think he was making fun of her. "Ah but thankfully like you, I'm also not one who speaks in untruths. You can count on that my trust is fact."

"Yeah, we'll see."

_Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_, he thought. He wanted to ask who and how she had been burned so badly, but had an inkling it would only cause her to withdraw into her steel reinforced ice barrier further.

They had arrived to the empty kitchenette where on the table sandwiches from the around the corner deli had gone cold. He picked one that still looked in relatively good shape and shoved it in the microwave for a few seconds. "Okay," he told her as they waited for her food to warm, "let's do this." Ripping off the corner of a napkin, he wrote down his number on it. "Here's my beeper number. Call that if you ever need something. I'll show up, no playing guaranteed."

Her expression was curious, and this girl had thrown off kilter so many times tonight he was sort of glad he could surprise her too.

"You don't even know who I am."

"Course I do." The microwave dinged and he took out the sandwich before getting her a can of coke from the fridge and placed both in front of her. "Eat up, Roxie Connor."

Unbidden, a laugh escaped her lips. "Roxie Connor?

Booth plopped himself down in one of the chairs at the small, linoleum table. "I dunno, you look like a Roxie." He wanted to tell her that she had what his Pops called spunk and Roxie was the first spunky name that popped into his mind. "And, I mean, you won't tell sweet Mrs. Cooper your name so I'm guessing you're the long lost sister of John Connor."

She picked at the sandwich and took a bite to avoid looking at him. The lost sister part was closer than she cared to admit. "And you're waiting around for me to turn into a cyborg or something."

"Yep, that would explain all that literal-speak." He smiled at her to make sure she knew he was kidding. He then nudged the food and drink further in her direction since she hadn't eaten much. He was anticipating her answer, more than he cared to admit actually, when a familiar _beep beep_ filled the air. Checking the number, Booth cursed internally to himself. "Alright Roxie, I got to go take care of something."

"Don't call me Roxie." She stated with a small shake of her head.

Booth grinned at her. Taking a leap of faith that she wouldn't smack him, he grabbed the scrap of napkin with his number and tucked into her jacket's front pocket. "Hang on to that. You trust that I'll show up and that I'm not some punk drug dealer on account of the pager. I'll trust that you won't beep me for chocolate at three in the morning for chocolate then obliterate me with your Rosebox shotgun."

He was five steps down the hall when he popped his head back in the doorway. "Oh and Roxie?"

She turned in her chair to give him a pointed look. He grinned.

"Hasta la vista, baby."

TBC.... *evil laughter*


	2. The Doe in the Orphanage

**Chapter Two: **The Doe in the Orphanage

Sometimes in the dead of night, when she was much younger, she would wake to the sounds of the downstairs radio filling the house with a mix of jazz and big band music. The first few times, she crept across the hall to her brother's room to shake him awake. Her mom always said that he took after their father, and that they both slept like they'd been up for a solid week. In those first times, he would indulge her by going along with her girlish romanticism. But eventually, he started just shrugging her off, rolling over, and going back to bed. Romeo, he was not. So still in her pajamas with blanket in hand, she would quietly pad down the hall and park herself on one of the topmost steps of the stairs. She watched as her father spun around her mother in the living room rug for what felt like hours. Her mother's laughter as Dad dramatically dipped her until her hair brushed against the coffee table never failed to lull her back to sleep.

* * *

She couldn't sleep. Over the past couple of weeks had spent nights in bathrooms, cargo trains, park benches, and subway terminals. Now that she was in an actual bed it seemed to confuse her body. Not to mention that the sheets felt worse than sandpaper as well as the symphony of creeks from bed springs erupted anytime a girl moved. She squirmed on the small cot to no anvil and turned her efforts to counting the peeling, cracked ceiling tiles instead. Once she had gotten up to number forty seven, the beginning bars of Glenn Miller's _In the Mood_ fell unconsciously from her lips in a lively hum.

Ba, ba, ba-dadum, dadum dadum da, da, dadum

"Shut your fucking hoagie, grandma! No prince or parent is coming to rescue you so stop keeping us up while you hold your pity party."

Her voice died instantly in her throat and her inner self wanted to dive under the sandpaper sheets in embarrassment as the irate tone echoed from the left two or three beds down. It was her fourth night at the orphanage. Though one would think otherwise, it hadn't gotten any easier as the days and nights counted on. Orphanage implies orphan – a word her brain refused to wrap around. Orphans were people who didn't have family. She had parents, an older brother. They were simply… not present.

The Children's Institute was like an airport for misplaced children run by Child Protective Services. It housed kids temporarily – some going home, some have been just taken from their home, and others in limbo until Protective Services figured out what do to with them. From what she'd gathered so far, the angry voice to her left fell into the second category. The twelve year old who was self proclaimed as Swish apparently had a mother on drugs and a father in jail causing her to call the Institute home whenever her mother was using. Swish had been quick to tell her that at her age, she was as good as dead.

See, she on the other hand fell into the third category. Approximately seventy two hours ago a wristband had been slapped on her arm baring the lovely name of Jane Doe #1001. They have consistently badgered her for a name since the moment the police officer grabbed her at Penn Station. However, with no need for an ID and her father always being fastidious about never fingering printing his kids, (he may have been a full time scientist, but he was a part time government conspiracy theorist) she was untouchable.

At dinner yesterday when the Headmistresses of the Institute first threatened to withhold her meal until she confessed her name, she was tempted to blurt out Roxanne Connor. It was on the tip of her tongue, if for any other reason to see how long it took them to see it was false, but she couldn't do it. One, she knew that no program whose main purpose was to protect kids would deprive them of food. Two, she had prided herself on a simple rule of noncompliance instead of lying. She didn't want to deal with a boy who cried wolf situation down the line. It had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn't bring herself to use _his_ advice, really.

Seeley Booth. The name bounced around her skull like a ball bearing from the annoying loud pinball game her brother used to never let her play. She had way too many things going on in her life for her thoughts to be drifting to a guy she would never see again. There were only two goals her thoughts should be focused on: finding her parents and getting to New York.

Oh but how she hated the way her demeanor had already changed in the short amount of time she spent with him. She had been manhandled enough in the past few months to develop a serious aversion to other people touching her. In the beginning, the child psychologists had classified her as a healthy, average teenager. But as the weeks progressed, she got tired of being coddled and pushed around. Then all of a sudden she went from normal to being labeled as cold and unnaturally withdrawn. Psychology was such a crock.

So her body had started an innate reaction to flinch or in the case of the police officer, violently react whenever someone touched her. Yet, her body only went up in mild alert when he tucked his number in her pocket without warning or permission. Thinking of the piece of napkin, her fingers involuntarily went to the rough cloth. She let a silent groan of frustration and scrubbed a hand down her face before succumbing. There was just enough light coming through the bars on the window behind her to make out the seven numbers written in his boyish scrawl. Her finger tips traced them over and over until it was unintentionally imprinted into her memory. Following the long swoop of the six and the double curve of the second three, she told herself sternly that she'd never use it.

She didn't realize she fell asleep with her hand in her pocket, the number still nestled in her palm.

* * *

"Eat up quick, Grandma. The Backwoods Bitch is about to want you in the den." Swish said plopping down in the only empty seat at the crowded kitchen table. "I overheard her talking to the Misuses about you." She reached across the table to separate two little boys who were fighting over a toy fire truck with a broken ladder. "Share the damn thing or I'll take it away."

It was like last night never happened. Swish was obviously still hostile, but it was becoming clear that the harsh attitude was simply her way. And true to her prediction, moments later the Headmistress appeared in the doorway concealed in a long denim dress. "Miss Ten-Oh-One," the weary woman said in a haughty sneer, "please follow me."

Her steps were slow as she was escorted into the front room where a plump black, woman was waiting. After directing her to take a seat in one of the set of chair near the fireplace, the Headmistress left them alone.

"Alright Cherie, I'm Caroline Julian and I will be your case worker." Caroline announced, shifting herself in the uncomfortable chair. The girl in front of her was kind of mousy, not at all what she had been imagining after what she had read in her file. She didn't look like she could find her way out of a mall parking lot much less survive days or weeks on her own.

A beat of silence passed before a soft voice greeted her with, "Hi."

Caroline gave the girl a deadpanned look that clearly stated _you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me._ For an unknown reason, she resisted the urge to laugh. "No, no, no. We're going to try this again. I'm Caroline Julian and I'll be you're case worker." With a flick of her hand, she gestured across from her. "Now this is where you say 'Nice to meet you Miss Julian, my name is…'"

_Ah, there she is_, Caroline thought as the girl's eyes sharpened to a point while her body language visibly tensed for an attack. _Let's play fast ball._ "Cherie, there is a few things you need to learn about me real quick. I mean what I say and say what I mean. I'm here to help you. The best way for me to do that is for you take a break from your teenage angst. I don't know what has happened to you, but I'm asking to know. Here's a onetime offer before I take drastic measures. I'll give you ten steamboats to give me your name."

"I don't know what the means." The tone was still polite, but it had lost its submissive quality.

"Ten Mississippi's maybe?" _Guess not_, Caroline mussed at the girls puzzlement. "It means that I'll say steamboat after each number so I don't count too fast. Ready? One steamboat, two steamboats…"

The elongated seconds slipped by as an impasse crossed between them. When the tenth steamboat had passed, Caroline quickly whipped out a Polaroid and snapped a picture of the girl. "Now let's get down to business, shall we? On the off chance I can't get you back to where you came from, as your case worker I'll be in charge of your safety and placement. Your reservation here lasts for five more days and then we'll have to get you sorted somewhere new. Seeing how the Park Bench Suite at Penn Station is not an option, we'll either try for adoption, half-way home, or foster care." Trying to gauge the girl's reactions to the three options, she paused to ask, "Any questions so far?"

"Yes, why did you take my photograph?" She seemed upset with herself that she hadn't figured it out already.

Caroline smiled, broadly. "I have a journalist friend that is very good as his job, as am I. It's amazing how many people have been featured in newspapers without them being aware of it. Plus there is always the DMV."

She watched as the girl opened her mouth, but then she seemed to think better of it. She took a small breath before trying again. "I wish you luck with your endeavor, Miss Julian."

"Not old enough to drive, are we?" Caroline latches on to the girl's simple slip. "You have to be… what, fourteen, fifteen… even sixteen or seventeen, maybe, if we were to push it. Maybe you're old enough to drive, but ran from strict parents?"

The second the word parents left her mouth, a change flashed across the girl's face. It was subtle, but not swift enough for her to shuffle her features back into their standoff attitude fluidly. She wanted to force the issue, _'What about your parents?'_ she wanted to ask. But she knew that she couldn't. There was an air about this girl that said the harder one pushed, the more determined she would become.

That was okay though, Caroline Julian might not be known for her patience… but she knew when it was the right time to give away your hand and when was the right time to hold. Researching via newspapers won't be the fastest task on earth but it'll have to do in a pinch. Her sister was telling her the other day about her hairdresser's cousin that works for someone foreign European nuclear research place that was developing something called the world wide web that would be able to connect information from all over the place in seconds. Yeah, my eye!

Glancing at the girls chart, she continued. "I'm sure that one of the younger girls here have gleeful informed you that due to your age, placement will be a bit difficult. Good news is that you seem to be a well adjusted young woman, despite the scuffle you had with the police officer that was mentioned in your file, so a half-way home shouldn't be necessary. Foster care is looking like the most probable option."

"The police officer attempted to take my bag after I repeatedly asked him to please not touch me."

"Yes, that particular officer has a thing about selective hearing and a stick up his ass." Smiling to reiterate that yes, she did just curse, Caroline rose. "I think it's about time I get to my research. You seem like much too smart of a girl to be called by a number. You'll see me again by the end of the week."

The girl didn't know what to think of her case worker. She was most definitely unlike any other members of Child Protective services she had met. She seemed stern, but not full of herself. But… she still wanted an identity, though she wasn't quite sure why. She believed that William Shakespeare's Juliet had it right - 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy… What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.

She had plenty of names to give them: girl, Roxie, Grandma, Jane-y Doe, Miss Ten-Oh-One, Cherie. It merely wasn't the name they wanted. "Miss Julian," she asked while she still had the chance. "May I have a copy of my case file please?"

The older woman looked at her with the same look her mother gave her brother once when he asked if he could get an earring. "Why?"

"I've recently discovered that psychology is very un-telling of its subject. I would like to know what is being written about me, and what decisions have been made without my knowledge."

"You are a strange one aren't you, Pischouette?"

Moving on before she could reply, she tossed out, "I'll bring a copy with me next time. Depending on what we can uncover, I'll see what we can do about letting you keep it."

TBC… y'all!

* * *

**AN:** Before I can say anything else – THANKS TO ALL WHO IS READING! You rock. But alrighty folks, maybe you can tell that I'm running with this whole _Sometimes in the dead of night_ theme. Also, being from Louisiana myself, I had throw in a few corrections here. I never counted steamboats, always Mississipi's (M-I-crooked letter, crooked letter-I… anyone?) also, Cherie means dear if anyone didn't already know but I don't often hear it. Pischoutte (meaning little girl, pronounced pea schwet – what my Mimi/grandma always called me – is more often heard, especially from older folk as a term of endearment.

Alsooo, one of the little kids I watch who is twelve wrote a book/story and wanted me to look at it. I was uber impressed at his narration and descriptions (the grammar was improper but hell, so is mine). So I pose a question to y'all – especially those lurkers who want an alert for the story but didn't review, I see you!! – at what age did y'all starting writing fanfic or your own stuff?


	3. The Chief in the Photograph

**Chapter Three: **The Chief in the Photograph

Sometimes in the dead of night, he could still hear the screaming. Parents fought. It was one of those fact of life things his Pops was always telling him about – ranked right up there with bad refs and spilled milk. But even as a toddler, Booth knew that the kind of fighting his parents engaged in wasn't normal. On the blue moons when he was allowed to go play at a schoolmate's house, their moms didn't have bruises and flinched at the slightest of noises like his did. And, their father's definitely didn't have the glazed eyes and whiskey breath. Most of the time the fighting started after he had gone to bed, but as he got older his father drank earlier and earlier in the day until the point where the arguments were already heated by the time he got home from school. He was seven the first time his old man laid a hand on him. And, well, after that he never really stopped…

* * *

Staring back at him were four cherry red, irregular shaped circles lined all in a row with a tinge of purple around their rims. Even to an untrained eye, it wasn't hard for one to tell that they were from a handprint extending the length of a small forearm. _Flip_. Busted top lip, the blood dripped over two front teeth in need of braces. _Flip. _Angry lines the color of spicy brown mustard, faded yet never truly healed, spanning from one boney shoulder blade to the other. _Flip. _Thin, crisscross bands of puckered scars as if a thread had been sewn underneath the skin reaching from across two backs of twiggy thighs. _Flip. Flip. Flip._ He couldn't look at any more.

"Thanks, Mr. Basak. How much do I owe you?" he asked as he fished into his back pocket for cash to avoid looking the man directly in the eye. The convenience store was small, but held an eclectic array of items. Not that he saw any of the merchandise now. Right now he didn't see much of anything. However, it was well known Mom'n'Pop business run by a family of Indian immigrants. They had three kids, two of which went to school with him.

"No charge for you." The man said in heavily accented English, briefly looking up from sorting change. "Not today."

Booth knew that Mr. Basak had to know what was going on. After all, it wasn't all that hard to piece together. The pictures spoke for themselves. He tried not to think about what the man must think when he was alone in his dark room. Watching as the chemicals seep on paper, watching as an ugly cliché of a broken family slowly developed. The bitch of it was that these didn't even show the worst damage. But, his mom never allowed him to photograph her.

The Basaks often didn't let him pay when he came in with film to develop. It made him feel terrible that he kept coming back. He needed to save all the cash he could though. Moreover, they thankfully never pried or asked questions. He didn't need someone going to confront his father on their own and making a bigger mess of everything. Or worse, dragging the police into it – again – and having to listen to his mother spew out ridiculous story after ridiculous story as if she wasn't always a baseball bat swing away from death. Pulling out a wad of dollar bills, Booth placed them on the counter. "I can't do that. Please –"

Suddenly Mr. Basak's wife came out from the back room and quickly slapped his hand, cutting off his speech. "You're money not good here." She stated in a swift, clipped tone. Then she smiled, her eyes showing not pity, only sadness. She shoo-ed him with the ornately printed cloth in her hand, "Go, go."

"Thank you," he stated, wishing there was more he could say. "Thank you."

Exiting the corner store, Booth made a mental note to sign up for the volunteer group their daughter was the leader of. He continued walking, venturing across the street to where his car was parked. It was a '79 Chevy El Camino in faded steel blue with a trunk lid permanently missing and a sketchy radio. It had been gifted to him for his birthday from Pops and by far the best present he had ever received. Pops had bought it off his friend who had kept the over decade old car in good running condition.

The ride to the precinct was fairly short as all the traffic seemed to be going in the other direction. The parking lot was packed, forcing him into the second to last lane from the back. Tucking the packet of pictures into his inside his jacket, he clipped his ID badge to the outside before jumping out of the Shelly.

"Seeley! Don't forget to give me your new work schedule. You know that school starts in a few days." Mrs. Cooper called after him the instant he walked through the door. Whoever said that the elderly had less than spectacular memories didn't know their shit. Pops and Mrs. Cooper didn't let him get away with a thing.

"Please don't remind me, Mrs. C. I promise I'll get the schedule to you, but I'm still in denial about the school."

She grabbed him by his coat sleeve as he went to past the desk, effectively holding him in place. "Why is it that young people are constantly hurried?" She asked with her eyes dead upon him. "Take things slow. You should be reveling in your life. This is your last year of high school. One day you'll wake up with knees that pop and arms that won't go above your head. Enjoy being young before you have to grow up and have responsibility."

The stash of photo's in his pocket suddenly felt incredibility heavy. He didn't have time to enjoy being young, carefree. He had to fight. Without his fists. It was something he was just recently realizing was possible. "It's on the to do list. Smell the roses." He quipped with a faux smile.

Mrs. Cooper's cold, bony fingers took hold of his face. Her grip was gentle yet surprisingly firm. "Promise me, Seeley. Promise that you'll use that big heart of yours to beat out of control for pretty girls and to run the pigskin down the football field. You'll have plenty of time later to save the world."

The image of the girl from the other night, the one he dubbed Roxie, popped into his mind like a flashbulb. There was something he couldn't put a name to that made her keep cropping up in his brain. He tried to tell himself it was merely her air of mystery that he was drawn to. It had been about a week since that night she was brought in and he hadn't thought up a way to ask what happened to her without seeming too interested. Because really, he wasn't all that interested. Really.

"I promise, Mrs. C. But you make it sound like I'm some kind of saint, which is far from the truth. Saving the world isn't even on my radar." His words were honest. He had to save his family before he even thought about the rest of the screwed up planet.

Her fingers slid down to tap the pendent at his neck. "Although you may not be a saint, they watch over you," she smiled. She then reached beside her to heave a stack of papers at him that had been rubberbanned together. "Here are some pawn shop inventory lists. The Captain was hoping you could take the open burglary cases and match up some valuables. He said that if you managed to find a few he'd let you have some Window Time with Saroyan."

Booth took the stack and made his way to his "office" to work. Underappreciated and overworked, the precinct didn't exactly have a spare space to stick him in when he came to intern for them a year and a half ago. And none of the officers wanted to share what little room they had with some tetchy high school kid. As grunt work, he was put in charge of cleaning and organizing the jam packed, closet-sized evidence room. He spent so much time in there that one day when he showed up someone had wrote _Seeley Booth, PITA Intern_ in sharpie on a piece of masking tape over the evidence room plaque. To others PITA might seem like some obscure department of law enforcement, but Booth learned quickly that it was meant to stand for _pain in the ass._

Nonetheless, the joke gave him claim on the room and it was enough to convince the captain to let him move an old beat up desk with drawers the never closed right from the basement into the space. He pilfered a lamp that had four layers of dust on it from a rarely used archive room. Mrs. Cooper also kept him stocked with any office supplies he needed. Most of the time being an intern for the police station was essentially a glorified secretary. He did a lot of filing, highlighting, and organizing. Every now and then he'd get some Window Time, getting to observe real interrogations from the dark side of a two way mirror. And when someone was in an exceptionally good mood, they'd sometimes let him attend one of the training classes they sent their rookie cops to.

He was a third of the way through the pawn lists when a familiar face passed across the small window his office door. He jumped up, knocking his chair over in the process. He ran from the room in determination to catch her before she left or disappeared into an endless hour meeting.

"Caroline," he yelled with complete lack of sanity. All the staff whipped their attention to his voice as if he had just screamed fire in a crowded theater.

The woman turned and Booth braced himself for the backlash. "Seeley Joseph Booth, get over here," she stated taking a step toward him, almost predatorily. "I know that you did not just holler at me in public. Not only did not just holler at me, you did not use my first name. Right?"

"Ms. Julian, I'm sorry! It's only that –"

"Right?" She glared.

"Right," he repeated. "I did not."

"And what didn't happen will never happen again, ya hear?"

"Yes ma'am, of course."

"Now what happened for you to lose your ever livin' mind?"

"Pictures," he said reaching into his jacking and producing them with a flourish. "New ones."

"Son, I'm starting to think that tape on your door is a warning rather than a label." She motioned for him to follow her outside to get away from the hustle and bustle. "We've been over this. The pictures help but we have more than enough as it is. And there is a time and a place to discuss your case."

Booth shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. "I know, but I can't just wait around and do nothing!" He said, exasperated. He didn't want to yell, especially in of Ms. Julian, yet it was so hard for him to keep from screaming. "These are from last week, Jared paged me. It was… it was so bad. He's getting worse. You know it was bad if Chief contacted me."

"I want to help you, Cherie. I do. Someone needs to come forward—"

"Momma, she wouldn't let me look at her." Booth interrupted, unable to hear the same spiel he's heard a hundred times before. "Chief said that there are burns all over her back though. He thinks it was a cigar."

"We can try to get you mother to the hospital again, but the last time she went in with burns she said it was an accident with the iron."

"He's going to kill her. Everybody knows she's in danger, but because she's lying he's going to kill her." Booth squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He wasn't going to cry. He was nearly grown, a man. He wasn't going to cry. "I should have stayed and protected them. I'm a coward."

It was moments like these that Caroline really hated her job, when everything that was wrong with the system was so blatantly obvious. She hated having to watch children be adults because the actual adults weren't strong enough. She would never pretend to know what it was like to have an abusive spouse, but that didn't make it easier to watch mothers stay with beating husbands out of unrequited love, fear, and a misguided attempt to protect their children. She hated knowing all of these things and not being able to do enough about them.

"You are a lot of things Booth but you and I both know that a coward isn't one of them. We worked hard for you to live with Pops so that Jared could live there half time. I know the situation isn't good, but the split custody thing we have going is nearly unheard of. I'm doing everything within my powers as your case worker, but I'm not a lawyer. Lord knows if I was a prosecutor I would have already nailed your father's sorry ass to the wall."

Booth managed a weak smile at her comment. He knew Mrs. Julian went above and beyond for him. "There has to be something more I can do."

Opening her bag, Caroline knew that she was too invested in the Booth family case file. It was one of the few cases she carried around with her around the clock. Partly because this wasn't the first time Seeley had accosted her outside of her office doors, partly because it was so obvious that the father was an abusive bastard. "Alright Cherie, I'll make you a deal since there is actually a little project that I could use your help with. Here's the card of the congressman that says Jared is too young to be a credible witness against your father. I want you to take those photos and mail them to his office with a heart wrenching letter."

"Done."

"Cherie, you love to jump into the fire without knowing how hot it is first. One day you're going to get yourself burned." She quipped. "I'm not done. Jared needs to write a letter of his own. Look over it, but it doesn't need to be perfect. I want it to be real. Also, see if you can get something from his teachers at the school saying that he's intelligent and mature." Digging in her briefcase, she fished out a blank notepad and a pack of cigarettes. She put one between her full lips. "I want a copy of those letters by Friday."

He eyed the stick in her mouth with distain. "Those are bad for you… ma'am."

She took a few deep puffs before dropping it to the group and stamping it out with the toe of her shoe. "The Surgeon General mentioned it, which is why I better neva, eva see you with one. Those letters?"

"Mine, Jared's, teachers', Friday." He affirmed.

"Now for my end of the deal: if I was looking for a kid about your age that I didn't have a name on, where would I look for them in a newspaper?"

Booth scratched the back of his neck and kicked at the dead cigarette with his boot. "A kid about my age, any more information than that? Why do you think they'd be in the paper?"

Caroline laughed. "Y'all are always in the paper for something. Mrs. Cooper updates your latest football clipping pinned behind her desk every week. And I can't give you any more information, client confidentiality."

"Ms. Julian," he grinned, pouring on the charm. "You know that I'm extremely trust worthy. I could help you a lot more if I knew what this guy was like."

"Saroyan needs to let you shadow him more often," she grinned back. "_She's_ a mousy looking thing, book club president type."

His mind swam for a moment. The girl with the laser blue eyes and confusing vocabulary was too imprinted in his mental image. She was already put into the system? Her air of mystery just got a whole lot bigger. "You mean Roxie?"

"Who?"

"There was this girl that Mullins brought in last week in the middle of the night. He tried to manhandle her and Mrs. Cooper sent her to the Captain to settle it."

Booth watched as she mumbled some fast French under her breath and he unconsciously took a step back. He knew she only tended to do that when she was seriously pissed. "I've been running my butt around town trying to track down this girl when she blabbed to you a week ago." She produced a Polaroid with a flourish and Booth had to smile at the shocked look on Roxie's face. "Is this is girl you mean?"

Even though he knew it was her, Booth took the photo from her hand to study it closer. He noticed the familiar wallpaper of the Children's Institute from his own short stint there. Despite the surprised raise of her eyebrows, there was still a defiant set to her jaw. "Yep, that's her. I don't know if name is really Roxie, I just kinda started calling her that. I thought it fit." He glanced down again at the picture. "Why was she sent to the Institute?"

Abruptly, the photo was ripped out of his hand and she whopped him upside the head with her file folder. "Oh no, no, no, Cherie. Absolutely not. Booth, you really are a pain in my ass. You are not allowed to develop some puppy love crush on this girl. It's my job to find out what happened to her, not yours." Her small speech was emphasized with some finger pointing. She looked him straight in the eye so he'd know she meant business before briskly turning to walk away.

She made it half way to the end of the block before he called out her name, her surname – he had learned his lesson well. She spared him a glance over her shoulder with a hand on her hip in impatience. "In the newspaper, try where they post the State Rally awards. The girl is really smart." He didn't know that for sure but he had a gut feeling about her. "Wherever they put chess club tournaments or science fair winners," he flashed his best smile, "I'll betcha on it."

* * *

**AN: It really, really wasn't supposed to take this long to update this. I've had most of it written for a good while, then the muse for the ending peaced out on me without notice. Next chapter… Booth and Brennan meet again… : ) Reviews are like unexpected hugs!**


	4. The Bug in the School

**Chapter Four: **The Bug in the School

Sometimes in the dead of night, she would track the shadows against the backdrop of the darkened bedroom. She would pretend that the unfamiliar surroundings were the cause of waking from a dream. It was that confusing, unsettling moment where the brain couldn't decide between the fantasy of sleep and the reality of consciousness. Then her eyes would adjust to the inky blackness, and she'd take in the foreign room with disgust. It was in these times that were lost to the night that she discovered her hatred for the unknown. She'd trace the outline of everything in the room from her position under the covers like you'd lay in the grass and trace the clouds on a bright summer afternoon. Usually it was dawn before she had memorized every corner, every ledge. This attention to detail would serve her well later in life. But at the time, it never made the room feel anymore like home.

* * *

Linoleum tile flooring, fluorescent lighting, and the lingering smell of moldy crayons mixed with bleach... normally these conditions didn't exactly sound inviting. Oddly though, the timeless familiarity of the setting comforted her. After the shock of waking up in a strange bed in a strange house once again, she welcomed the mundane and stereotypical characteristics that seemed to inhabit schools all across the country. The couple that child services had placed her with - she refused to think or refer to them in any parental capacity - had insisted on accompanying her to her first day of classes. She had the small inclination to believe that they were instructed to do this for fear that she would runaway at the first opportunity. She wanted to tell them that she wasn't that stupid.

She needed a good strategy first.

"I was thinking that now that school has started, I could get an after school job." She didn't want to be indebted to these people in any way. Plus, she needed money to get to New York as soon as possible. She shrugged one shoulder in an attempt to look casual, as if she hadn't been planning the words all morning. "I want to be able to contribute."

The wife of the couple she had been placed with, Anna, turned in the little plastic waiting area chair to look at her. "Let's see how today goes first, hm? There's no need to rush everything." In the short time she had been with the couple, she had come to recognize that Anna desperately wanted to mother someone. Brad, the husband, seemed indifferent to the entire situation. "Who knows," Anna continued, "you might be too busy with clubs or friends for a job. I was a cheerleader when I went here. Maybe you could go out for the squad? Legacies hold weight in try outs."

Thankfully, the office door opened, cutting off Anna's hopeful tone and any need for a response. A woman with dark, frizzy hair emerged from the inner office. She approached the three waiting for her in the hall. "Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein?" she asked with her hand outstretched for the man to shake. He did so limply and she felt his eyes hover briefly on her bare legs beneath her skirt. "I'm Sherry Mayor, the school's guidance counselor. I'm happy to see you both here. It's great when our students have a wide base of support."

"Oh, of course! We plan to be very involved." Anna piped up helpfully.

Sherry smiled to restrain her chuckle. She wanted to tell the woman that if she wanted any chance at winning over the teenage seated beside her, she needed to turn down the eager dial about five notches. The key word in dealing with these kids she had learned was nonchalance.

"Wonderful. But in these types of instances, the school also feels that it is important to let the students stand on their own two feet." She glanced at the girl between the two adults. So far she hadn't spoken a word. Sherry redirected her attention to Mrs. Bernstein. "I promise she will be well taken care of." She shook hands with the couple again - her personal foolproof method of politely ending a conversation with parents. "Oh, and carpool picks up at a quarter to three in the back parking lot."

She waited until the Bernsteins had exited the building before motioning the girl back into her office. She took a seat behind her desk and gestured toward a chair for her guest. Opening the new student's file, she said, "The situation sucks, I won't beat around the bush and try to tell you otherwise."

"Yes, it does." The girl's words were simple and courteous. There was no laughter nor hint of a smile.

"Your guardians seem pretty okay."

"They're..." her blue eyes were quizzical as she searched for the right word, "nice."

Sherry grinned. "Nice can be good." She slid a piece of paper across the table. "Here is your schedule. I know today will be bizarre, but try to remember that it's everyone's first day as well. Since you managed to miss out on orientation, lucky you, I've nabbed a senior from the secretaries up front to show you around."

As if the person knew they were being talked about, seconds later whistling was heard coming from the hall. "That sounds like him now."

It was his last, first day of high school. He felt that it should have been different somehow, felt different, more significant. In truth, the only thing he could think about was that he only had nine months left to figure out a plan. How was he going to get out of this town and go to college so that he could save his family? School was his reprieve from life. It was where he could be like the rest of his classmates. He knew that everyone had their secrets, dirty laundry that didn't like to be aired. But inside these halls they were all just students.

Although he wasn't quite as psyched as some of his peers, he was excited. He had a kick ass schedule - student aid first hour and football was the only thing after lunch. It pretty much guaranteed that he could arrive late or skip out early once, maybe even twice a month without getting in trouble. Plus, his student work program at the police station allowed him to leave school after sixth hour anyway to go to work.

"Seeley, be a dear and bring these to Ms. Mayor please," Mrs. Watkins said, placing a stack of books in his arms. She was a bone thin woman who showed an inappropriate amount of skin for someone who worked around hormonal teenagers. Today it was a red, polka dot wrap dress that clung too tight and with a v-neck that was too low. It was rumored that she was having an affair with the vice principal. And based on what he had seen of her husband, he figured the rumored was true. "I told her you wouldn't mind showing around a new student."

The stack was large, and he guessed by the titles that the new kid was a junior. Whistling the school fight song that they had blared over the intercom this morning, he weaved around the other front desk ladies milling in the hall to reach the guidance office. He knocked softly before nudging the door open with his foot.

He recognized the over sized jacket and tattered backsack immediately though he had only met her once. He was so thrown off at seeing her that he stumbled over the area rug. He managed to catch himself by grabbing the back of the other guest chair, but the books were a lost cause as they went colliding onto the floor.

_Smooth, Seel._

Mayor chuckled from behind her desk while the girl jumped up and whipped around to see who had caused the commotion. Her mouth dropped open on its own accord as her eyes widened. No sound came out. Booth knew that he needed to retrieve the books that had spilled across the carpet, but he couldn't bring himself to pull his gaze from her face. He didn't know if her fish-out-of-water expression was one of outrage or shock at seeing him again. He removed the grip he had on the black vinyl of the chair to straighten out his letterman jacket and hold his hand out to her.

"Seeley Booth, at your service."

The girl looked at his outstretched hand briefly and took a quick glance at his face before bending to pick up her textbooks scattered at their feet. She knew that Pittsburgh was the second largest city in Pennsylvania, but it was starting to feel very much like a small town. It seemed that her bad luck (did she even believe in such frivolous things as luck anymore?) continued. Of course out of all the possible students she could have seen on her first day, it had to be _him. _Her plan to be completely anonymous had already fallen apart. The best she could do now was to keep moving forward, leaving no ties in her wake. She didn't need others. They didn't need her. She already had a family and friends, and what good had it done? Nothing.

"I got it." He hastened to say, grabbing the books before she could pick up too many.

"Booth here is one of those 'it boys' you see in the movies. Decent student, football star, good at helping damsels in distress. I think the school is even saving up to buy him a white horse." Mayor merely smiled when he sent her a pointed look. "He's the perfect choice to be your tour guide."

She, Roxie - he still didn't know her true name - was silent as Mayor tossed some more last minute information her way. He could feel her eyes barring into his back as she followed him down the hall as he led her to her locker. He made a mental note of the number, 47B, which wasn't that far away from his on the next hall. He set the books in the locker and took the padlock he got from the front office out of his pocket. "So Roxie," he said turning... _wow._ If the weight of her eyes were heavy, it didn't compare to staring into her blue lazer beams dead on. Since he had seen her at the precinct, he had told himself that he only imaged them being that intense. His fingers twitched to draw her closer. _What was it about her that was so magnetic? _He plucked her schedule out of her hands to prevent him from doing something really crazy and scaring her off for good. "Chess match or science fair?"

"What?" She nabbed the paper back before he could get a good look at it. "Why did you act as if you haven't been introduced to me before?"

"Ya mad?" Booth grinned as he continued their tug of war contest on her schedule. He peered at the top right hand corner where it listed her guardians. "I can't believe you were sent to live with Buggy Bernstein. I hope he didn't drive you here in the pest control, mosquito mobile."

She ripped it back, again. "No. Of course not. I was merely curious. And, no, they drove me in a normal car."

"Look, I didn't say I already met you because although Ms. Mayor is pretty alright, I didn't think it was any of her business to know that you were dragged into police headquarters because you were sleeping at Penn station."

"Oh. Thank you," she murmured softly, looking down at her shoes.

At that moment, Booth knew that whoever this new, mysterious girl was she would surely keep him on his toes. One minute she's defiant, defensive. The next... a flicker of vulnerability would surface and he fisted the leg of his jeans from keeping his hands from reaching out and encircling her. "So," he asked a second time, "chess match or science fair?"

"I don't know what that means."

"How Caroline tracked down who you are in the paper. I figured it had to be some sort of award."

She tried to keep her face passive, but inside she was seething. She had won first place in the state science fair last year and came in third the year before that. The news article had hung on their fridge until Russ had taken it down, saying it was going to give her a big head. Thinking of her brother, she used one of his favorite tactics when their parents asked him something he didn't want to answer - deflect.

"How do you know Ms. Julian?"

"Oh, she's one of my many admirers." Booth waited, but she didn't laugh at his quip. He shrugged. "I intern at the station, and she's a social worker. We run into each other from time to time, help each other out occasionally."

Magnetic or not, he still had only just met the girl so he played his cards close to the vest. There was no reason for him to reveal that he was also one of Caroline's cases. He didn't exactly think the two of them would be swapping tearful life stories over lumpy oatmeal in one of Child Services halfway house suites anytime soon.

"The last time we interacted you were telling me to give the police officer a fake name. Then you helped track me down… that's a quick change of heart."

Booth moved toward her. Tall with wide shoulders, he knew he could be seen as an imposing guy. Most people would have shyed away, yet as he had already learned, the girl inches in front of him was anything but the norm. He put his hand on the locker beside her head and leaned in. "I meant what I said the other day, I'm not trying to play you. Mullins – the officer that pulled you in – I wouldn't mind if he went and played in traffic. Caroline, on the other hand, is good people. She's loyal." He felt the left side of his mouth lift into a crooked grin. "Plus, I had something to gain by helping her."

"Oh yeah," the girl challenged not daring to flinch at his close proximity, "what's that? Another golden boy award to add to your jacket?"

"No. I knew it would raise my chances of seeing you again."

She ducked under his arm and stepped back but kept her gaze pinned on him. Her eyes were hard. "I'm not a damsel. I don't need saving. I'm sure your attractive physique and charming smile works satisfactory with other girls, but I didn't come here to swoon when pretty words are thrown my way." She blew out a frustrated breath. "I appreciate you showing me to my locker."

_Polite, so polite._ He thought as he raised his hands in the universal gesture for surrender. Although she was socially awkward, a little on the weird side, she couldn't be called rude. "Down girl," he said, his grin slipping for a moment before suddenly morphing into a smirk. "Roxie, did you just call me hot?"

"My name isn't Roxie."

He noticed she didn't deny it and stole her schedule once again. "Is that so," his eyes zoomed over the page looking for her name, "Temperance Brennan."

Her head jerked up so fast Booth was surprised he didn't hear an audible snap. "Temperance," he said again, rolling the name around his tongue. "It doesn't fit you." He could see her frown in the corner of his vision. "I like it, different and a lot better than Seeley I'll give you that. But, it's too... it's too tame. You're not an old lady knitting in the corner."

"It means moderation."

He laughed. "Do you do anything in moderation?"

She tilted her head to the side as if she was seriously thinking about it. "Not that I can recall. I like to give every task the best of my ability."

"I can see that," he murmured, looking down at the list of her classes. He whistled. "AP English and AP Physics, Latin. What year are you in?"

"I'm a sophomore."

"And you're taking Anthropology too?"

"Yes," she nodded. "It's the study of -"

"Humans, I know." Booth cut in. "I'm not a total bonehead."

She smiled. It was the first true smile he had seen on her. _If I thought she was captivating before... _Her smile lit up whole entire face and made her eyes freakin' blaze. At the station he had thought she wasn't atypically pretty, but now with her alight with happiness every guy in school was bound to hit on her.

_"_I see that." She repeated his words, her lips quirking. "Although bonehead is supposed to be an insult, the skull of a human can actually tell you a lot about a person. Forensic Anthropology is my favorite field, though they are all fascinating. It's the branch of biological anthropology that scientifically studies human bones in-depth to conclude how they died and/or lived."

"Thanks for the history lesson, Bones." Even though the subject sounded pretty boring, it was the only piece of personal information she had given to him so far. It was almost weird to see her demeanor change immediately. He wondered if her awkwardness always fell away when she talked about something she was passionate about.

"We just established that my name is Temperance, not Bones."

"It's a nickname. Ya know, because you want to work with bones."

Her gaze turned curious and Booth thought he should be able to hear the gears turning in her head. "Well, I'm not sure if I like it."

"Nickname? You're not always supposed to like it, it's part of the appeal." He finally gave back her schedule, trading it for the last of her books for him to hold. "Come on, Bones. Let's get you to your first class."

Speeding her steps to catch up with him, she shouted, "Don't call me Bones!"

* * *

**So... did you like their little reunion? I'm going to stop apologizing for the sporadic updates since I keep doing it over and over again anyhow. Thank you for continuing to read this story, it's been therapeutic to write in a crappy time of my life. Please catch me on twitter at _isagrasshopper_. Also, check out my profile on here for the updates on how the WIP chapters are coming along. **

**ps: I was thinking of creating a threat/forum topic to add extra tidbits of info like their schedules and such. What do y'all think. Hit me up or press the green button below to lemme know! Thanks :)  
**


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